Assassin's Creed: Catalyst
by Ali Nowac
Summary: Saved by the father he never knew, Connor Kenway grows into a fine young man under the shadow of the Grand Master Templar, Haytham Kenway. Under his guidance, Haytham's son has been molded into a deadly killer. However, everything is put on the line when a mission goes haywire, the bonds between father and son are tested and a single small eagle brings the downfall of a legend.
1. Lost it All

**A/N: Hello all! This is my first attempt at a full length ****_Assassin's Creed_**** fic, so bare with me. This is a continuation of "Lost it All" my small Haytham/Connor AU. I've made a few very small adjustments to "Lost it All" so I'm just reposting it as the prologue to the full length fic: "Nobody's Hero". Please read and review!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I wish I did, but I don't. **

_**prologue**__: lost it all_

His horse plodded on through the forest, his thoughts wandering towards Ziio as they always did when he came near to Mohawk Valley. Usually the birds were chirping and he'd concentrate on their song rather than on the memories. This time, however, there were no birds and there was a stale scent on the air. Everything within him froze. In the distance, curling into the air was a staircase of dark smoke. The wind shifted and he could hear them; screams of anguish.

Haytham Kenway spurred his horse into a gallop, leaning over the saddle as they plunged through the forest. Sparks fell through the air and the smoke clogged his throat, causing him to gag. He broke through into the village, leaping off his horse. Men, women and children were running every which way, trying to find loved ones and a way out. The fire crackled, feeding at their homes and on their flesh. On the other side of the village, he heard a child screaming.

_"Ista!"_

The word wasn't familiar to him, but the pain it was wailed in was. He broke into a run, the heat searing his skin. He covered his mouth with his arm, trying not to breathe in too much smoke. Rounding the corner, the scene stopped him in his tracks. A child of four was struggling to lift the boards of the burning home from a woman. Even with the blood splattered across her face and her braided hair disheveled, Haytham knew who she was.

_Ziio_.

She said something to the child, the language unfamiliar to him and then their eyes met. Hers: dark brown and anguished; his: greyish blue and widened. Her lips mouthed his name but he couldn't hear it, all he could hear was the cracking above her as another Mohawk rushed past Haytham and grabbed the child, pulling him away.

The child struggled, screaming but Ziio was looking at Haytham and Haytham at her. She reached out to him and he broke from his stupor. He ran towards her as the roof over her broke and crashed down all around her. He skidded backwards as flames jutted up from the wreckage. Something slipped from his lips - he thought it was her name, though it could have been a noise of broken pain - and his knees trembled.

Something broke within him. He stumbled away, the child's screams echoing all around him. Another fire awoke in his mind, the one that burned his own home to the ground after the five mercenaries broke in and murdered his father right in front of him. He remembered shoving a fallen sword into the eye of his mother's would-be-murderer. He remembered the sick pleasure that had filled him as the body slumped to the ground, the same way his father's had.

Now, there was no one to kill, just the child wailing and the flames dancing tauntingly before him. He stumbled again, coughing on smoke, his eyes stinging. The kid was still being dragged away. "Wait!" the word left him before he could hold it back. The bald Mohawk male narrowed his eyes. "Wait," Haytham said again, walking closer, holding his hands up in a non hostile way.

He kneeled down before the child and it looked up at him. His dark hair was all his mother's, falling into his eyes, a few strands braided together. He had his mother's eyes and the same defiant set to his chin. However, the curve of his lips and his little nose belonged to another family: the Kenways. There was no doubt in Haytham's mind that this child was his. His _son_.

He looked up at the other male, who was watching him warily. "He's mine," said Haytham hoarsely. "He is my son." The Mohawkian looked between the child and the Brit. Haytham knew he could see the resemblance. The child broke from the other's hold and fell against Haytham's chest, his little arms wrapping around his father's neck and his face fitting into the fold of the older's neck. His little body shook with his grief and slowly Haytham stood, looping an arm around the little child's body.

Another building fell into itself and the Mohawk met Haytham's eyes. "Take care of him. He is Ratonhnhake:ton." Then the other male turned and ran off to escape the blaze.

Haytham looked down at the small child in his arms, unable to pronounce the kid's name. He pulled him closer, sheltering him from the heat of the flames and cruelty of the world as he hurried back to his horse. He pulled himself into the saddle and sent one last look in the direction of the hut where he'd found Ziio and then turned his steed around and galloped out of the burning town, leaving behind the memory and the screams.


	2. Tension Between Allies

**A/N: Here's the first chapter! All I have to say is that the characters are not mine and I would appreciate some feedback, as always! Enjoy! **

_**chapter one**__: tension between allies_

The child was asleep in Haytham's chambers at the Green Dragon Inn. He leaned against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. Taking his hat off with a flourish, he placed it on the table and ran his hand through his hair. What was he to do with a child- his son? He had a duty to his order, to his men but he also this new duty to the sleeping child behind the door.

Before he could even begin to decide, the door to the inn crashed open and in crowed Thomas Hickey - drunk as always - and the stoic Charles Lee at his side. The drunkard trumpeted up the stairs, talking what Haytham thought was nonsense until he heard the words 'savages' and 'fire', causing his insides to twist. Lee arched a brow in Hickey's direction as he moved up the stairs in a far more dignified manner, though Haytham caught the cruel smirk on his lips as Hickey's drunken babbling continued. However, he fell silent when he reached the top of the stairs. The cold glaze in Haytham Kenway's eyes stopped both men in their tracks.

"A word, if you please, Charles?" Queried Haytham calmly, spreading a hand towards the door the two other men had just walked through. At Lee's nod, Haytham retrieved his hat and made for the door, leaving the drunken Hickey to stumble over to a woman at the corner of the inn. He'd decided there was no use trying to talk sense into that drunken fool.

Once outside in the cold Boston air, Haytham turned to Charles, struggling to keep his calm. "Did we not decide to stop the search for the Precursor Site?"

"Yes, sir but-"

Haytham held up a hand and Lee fell silent. "I will not pretend to know why you did as you did, Charles," he began, "but I will have you know that it will have severe consequences. You have lost my trust, and you can guarantee that a limited amount of information will be shared with you now."

Charles blanched, but recovered quickly. "Sir, if I may, they'd have been trouble in the future. They're nothing short of savages -"

The younger of the pair was silenced by the deadly glaze to Kenway's eyes. "I do not believe you would like it much if they were to come and burn your home down, hm?"

Lee's eyes narrowed, then widened with sudden realization. "You're thinking of that bitch you set free in Southgate, aren't you?"

"Watch your tongue, Charles."

Lee shook his head. "I had thought it was a mere fascination, Sir, but it seems much more than that."

The words were out before Haytham could hold them back: "I have a son, Charles."

Lee opened his mouth. Closed it. Paused. Shook his head. "I never pinned you as the type to frolic with the natives, sir." The next was quickly added at the look that crossed the older Templar's face: "What will you do with it?"

Haytham's eyes narrowed. "_He_ is my son and I will raise him as such. If you so much as raise a hand against him, I will remove it myself, do I make myself clear?"

Charles nodded once and turned to renter the inn, when Haytham made a gesture to dismiss him.

"And Charles."

"Yes sir?"

"If you ever refer to Ziio as 'that bitch from Southgate' again, I will not be so kind."

Charles paled and for a moment it almost seemed like he wished to say something else but thought better of it and slipped into the inn with a hurried nod before Haytham could demand he spit it out.

Once he was gone, Haytham let loose the breath he'd been holding. Her face flashed through his memory; the fire flickering in her eyes, the roof caving in around her. His anger evaporated and he leaned against the inn, closing his eyes. He caught the scent of smoke and pulled his arm away from his face, looking down at it and the rest of himself in disgust. He hadn't realized it early but his clothes were soaked with the stench; it wafted up and burned his nostrils. He hated being wet, but he'd gladly jump into the ocean if to only be rid of the smell.

He exhaled slowly, glancing towards the door of the Green Dragon Inn. He didn't know how he'd be able to face Charles again knowing what he'd done.

* * *

><p>Ratonhnhake:ton opened his eyes. He was laying on something strange and unfamiliar and scrambled up into a sitting position, looking around. Where was he? Panic hit and he took a deep breath.<p>

Then he remembered. He remembered the fire. He remembered screaming for his mother, trying to lift the wood. He remembered the frenetic beating of his heart as the heat seared his skin and the flames reflecting the fear in her eyes. He remembered the appearance of the strange man with the strange voice and the strange clothes. He remembered the strange man saying that he was Ratonhnhake:ton's father. His _rakeni_.

He blinked slowly and took in the room, trying to tear his mind from the tragedy. The bed he was sitting on was decent sized, big enough for him and he thought one other person. It was covered in a fabric he did not recognize, but it was smooth to the touch and he liked the way it trapped his body heat beneath it. The pillow had the same smooth touch to it and his head sunk into it when he leaned back against it.

At the far side of the room, near the window, was a wooden desk. On it was a long stick, a container full of something black, a few old books and maps and a signal opened book, near the stick and the container. Curiosity filled the young child and he slowly slid off the bed, his bare feet slapping on the cool wooden ground as he crossed to the desk.

Gingerly, he peered down at the book. The words were written in a fancy hand, the letters curling together. Fascinated, he slowly traced the curls with the tip of his finger. He had never seen writing like this before. His mother had begun teaching him his letters and her hand was jagged and, although easy to read and copy, lacked grace; nothing like this. For all he knew, he couldn't place many of the letters scrawled upon the page and his forehead creased with a frown. He didn't get much time to try to further decipher the page for the door creaked upon and he jumped in surprise, whirling around.

Standing in the doorway was his _rakeni_. The man wore the same navy tricorne hat, that slightly shadowed his face. His clothes were the same dark blue and his cape had the same intricate design. He had the same silvery blue eyes and the same confused look in them. However, when their eyes met the older's lips curved into a faint smile.

"You're awake," he observed calmly, his words tinged with the same strange accent. He closed the door, sealing out the clatter of the rest of the building.

Ratonhnhake:ton's mother had spoken English enough around him that he knew what his father was saying. He did not, however, know how to reply. So, he just nodded.

The man walked forward and crouched down to Ratonhnhake:ton's level. "I'm going to take care of you," he said, his light eyes meeting Ratonhnhake:ton's dark ones. Again, the child nodded and the man offered another smile. Ratonhnhake:ton tentatively offered one back.

"We must do something about your name..." Said the man slowly, straightening, his face twisted in thought.

Ratonhnhake:ton pulled a face. "What is wrong with my name?" He asked slowly, the words strange on his tongue. Then, he realized he did not even know this man's name. "Who are you?" He asked, looking up.

The man replied smoothly, "I am Haytham Kenway, and your name is... difficult for some to pronounce."

Ratonhnhake:ton arched a brow, unable to understand how his name could be hard to pronounce. "Ratonhnhake:ton?" The name slid flawlessly from his mouth and his father's lips pursed. He realized that his own father didn't know how to pronounce it. He exhaled, looking down. He wished his mother was there.

There. He'd thought it. Instantly, he wished he hadn't. The tears surfaced and he sniffled trying to keep them at bay. He knuckled his eyes, angry that he wanted only to curl up and cry. He wanted his father to think he was brave. He'd been possessed by the strangest feeling ever since finding out Haytham Kenway was his father. He realized now that he wanted his father to be proud of him and he did not believe the man would be pleased with his tears.

Haytham knelt again and put his hands on Ratonhnhake:ton's shoulders. When the child moved to angrily wipe his tears away, Haytham caught his hand and lowered it. He brushed his thumb gently across Ratonhnhake:ton's cheeks. He offered a gentle smile, his eyes sympathetic. Ratonhnhake:ton threw his arms around his father once again and closed his eyes.

"I can teach you to pronounce my name, _rakeni_," he offered in a small voice.

His father gave a nod. "I would appreciate that," he replied, "but others will not take the time to learn it."

Ratonhnhake:ton leaned back, his little face creased with a frown. "What do I do then?"

"You pick a new name," proposed Haytham simply, with a shrug.

The Mohawk child's face twisted further. He didn't know any names that wouldn't be hard for his father to pronounce. He shrugged.

"A good strong name," contemplated Haytham more to himself as he studied the child. "Connor," he decided at length, giving a curt nod. "Connor Kenway."

Ratonhnhake:ton blinked. "Connor?"

Haytham smiled and gave an approving nod.

Connor Kenway gave a slow nod, once again giving the name a try and then he gave his father a small grin.

* * *

><p>It was about mid-morning the day after when Connor finally came around. He'd gone to bed shortly after Haytham delivered him a light dinner. His eyes were hollow and his mouth refused to turn up. Haytham didn't push the child, as he too found it hard to push the image of Ziio from his mind. Nevertheless, he did require that the child accompany him to a late breakfast with a few of the other men.<p>

The child followed Haytham slowly down into the heart of the inn. The music was upbeat and most of the inn was as well despite it being still quite early. In the corner, Lee was already feasting upon his breakfast, while Hickey was staring at his with disgust. Haytham assumed he was recovering from his drunkenness the day before. Pitcairn and Johnson were talking in low tones on the other side of the table and Church was watching them, a fork half raised to his lips. None of the men noticed Haytham as he approached, let alone the child trailing behind him.

Haytham cleared his throat, folding his hands behind his back. Pitcairn and Johnson quieted and glanced towards Haytham and Hickey barely raised his head. "Men," began Haytham, "in the near future, we will be welcoming in a new member to the Order." He glanced behind him at Connor, who was watching the ground rather than meeting the eyes of his father's men. "Connor," he said and the boy looked up and his gaze fell instantly on Lee. "These are my-"

An animalistic growl built itself up in Connor's throat. He surged forward, cutting off Haytham's words. He threw himself at Lee, whose chair toppled to the ground at the contact. The other men, excluding Hickey, leaped to their feet. Out of them all, Lee was the first to act, easily throwing the small child off of him. He leaned over the child's struggling body, placing his hands to Connor's neck and squeezing, a snarl on his face.

"Lee!" That was Johnson, grabbing Charles's arm and pulling at him, sending a hurried glance at Haytham who was advancing with a killer glare on his face. Johnson's advances didn't help, but Charles stilled when the cool nozzle of Haytham's pistol settled at his temple. He loosened his grip on Haytham's son's throat and backed off slowly. His right cheek was a bloody mess where Connor had scratched him. The dark blood dripped onto his lips and he spit it to the ground beside the child.

"He is a savage, Haytham," snapped Lee, watching without sympathy as Haytham drew the sputtering boy away from the group of men. "It would do you well to get rid of him before he grows into a man."

Haytham grabbed Charles by the collar and gave him a shake. "If you ever, touch my son again, I swear to God, I will kill you." He pushed him back, turning on his heel and gathering up Connor, storming back towards his quarters. He slammed the door behind them and released Connor, who had been struggling most of the way. "What in the hell was that!?" He exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"He was there!" Connor cried, his child's voice rising a few octaves. "He was the one who burned down my home!"

Haytham leaned his head into his hand, shaking his head. He should have none his son would have seen something. "Connor," he took a deep breath to expel his anger. "Charles is a good soldier and I need him, do you understand?"

Connor frowned and shook his head. No. His father opened his mouth to explain, but a knock sounded at the door and William Johnson stepped in, closing the door behind him. "Is the kid alright, Kenway?" he asked, glancing from Haytham to Connor. Haytham gave a curt nod, watching as Johnson kneeled down in front of Connor. "Gave Lee quite a mark, you did." He offered a somewhat crooked smile and patted the kid's shoulder. "William Johnson," he offered.

Connor looked at the hand Johnson was offering and uncertainty placed his small hand in Johnson's and shook it. "Connor," he replied slowly, glancing at his father who stood over Johnson's shoulder. He turned back towards Johnson when Haytham gave a nod.

Johnson straightened and glanced at Haytham. "Lee left," he said and Haytham exhaled. Johnson offered a faint smile. "He'll be back, I can guarantee. He likes his second-in-command position too much to just let it go, you know that, Haytham."

Haytham nodded and glanced towards Connor who was watching them. "I will be in touch, Johnson," he said, "I believe it will be beneficial for me to raise Connor away from Lee." And before long, Haytham had packed up what little his quarters held and moved himself and Connor into a small apartment further from the center of Boston. There, the Templar Grandmaster began his son's teachings.


	3. The Beginning of the End

**A/N: I apologize if this is going a little slow, I've slowly setting it up for events in the future. I've brought something of pretty big significance in this chapter, so I'm looking forward to diving further into that! Please enjoy and as always, **_**Assassin's Creed **_**is not mine, nor are the Kenways or any of the other Templars. Please read and review! **

**Also, I'd like to point out that this is _heavily _AU. Connor _is a Templar_, as he was raised by Haytham. That may or may not change, depending on what develops later on in the story. **

** I've also received questions on if Shay will be appearing. At the moment, I have no plans to put him in, though it's possible that I may stick him in at some point after I play the game. **

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><p><strong>chapter two: <strong>_the beginning of the end_

"Take the south side," said Haytham from beside his son, the grasses shifting with his movements. "We'll ambush them in the middle." When there was no reply, Haytham glanced over. "Connor?" He looked around, holding back the burst of frustration that rolled through him. He looked up then, more surprised than he should have been to see his son deftly leaping through the trees. He hissed through his teeth and took off at a slow trot through the forest, coming around at the back of the small Assassin convoy. He dashed into the bushes on the other side and crouched.

It had been a long twelve years for both the Grandmaster and his son. Haytham himself had been struggling to keep up with his duties to his men, and his son, whom he'd been tutoring. Although a bright child, Connor had many questions and often had troubles understanding the war between the Templars and the Assassins, though Haytham hardly blamed him. It hardly mattered, as Connor excelled in both swordsmanship, tracking, climbing trees and firing bows. Although he was a decent show with a pistol, Haytham's son prefered the bow.

Their current mission was a simple one; attack the convoy and interrogate the captain. It was more to test Connor's ability to take orders than anything else, which he was currently failing at, though the attack would hopefully cause the small Brotherhood of assassins that had massed over the years to journey out of hiding.

Haytham came up on the right side of the convoy, glancing up to see Connor preparing himself to leap down onto the covered wagon. If they timed it just right, they'd be able to take the small Assassin group completely by surprise from two sides, overpowering them. Just as Connor leaped, Haytham lunged out of the bushes and tackled the Assassin closest to him to the ground, sliding his hidden blade into his rib cage.

Haytham sprang away as his son killed the two at the back of the convoy. They joined up, back to back as they were jumped by the final two Assassins. The fight was quick, the two Templar's movements fluid. It was a dangerous dance, but they knew it well. Better than the two Assassins they were fighting. When both were dead on the ground, Haytham turned towards where he'd last seen the captain and spotted him too late.

He leaped off the top of the convoy, tackling Haytham to the ground. They tumbled down the side of the road; the Assassin attempting to sink his hidden blade into Haytham's jugular, and Haytham attempting to block those advances. He managed to shout: "Connor! A little help, perhaps!?" as they tumbled head over heels into the small creek at the base of the valley.

Before Haytham could straighten himself, the Assassin grabbed him and shoved his under the water. Haytham threw his knee up into the Assassin's groin, causing him to hiss and fall backwards. The Templar Grandmaster surged out of the water and pushed the Assassin back, breathing heavily as Connor skidded to a stop a few paces away. Haytham threw him an exasperated look before returning his light eyes to the Assassin, whom he hefted up and tied his hands together. He shook his arms out as best he could, his clothes heavy and sticking to him. He vaguely noticed the absence of his hat and would have grabbed it from where it hung on a branch some ways up the hill if he hadn't been so preoccupied with the struggling Assassin.

"Your help was much appreciated, Connor," he spoke up calmly, a sarcastic bite to his words, as he walked past his son, who pulled a face. He added: "Come along then," and Connor fell into step beside his father to help control the struggling Assassin. They dragged their catch back up the hill to the convoy, where they pushed him down and Haytham folded his hands behind his back.

"Tell us," he began, beginning to circle the downed Assassin, "your Brotherhood has been nonexistent for years, why choose now to make your presence known to the rest of the world, hm?"

The Assassin smirked and spit at the ground. "It will only be a matter of time before your Order comes crashing down around you, Haytham Kenway. Everyone you hold dear to you will die, and it will be your fault."

Haytham's eyes stayed cold. "Perhaps you ought to reconsider that threat," he said, "as it so happens there are not many that I make a show of caring for."

The Assassin's eyes slid to Connor who was watching. "Your son will be the first to go if you cannot see reason."

"I assure you, I can protect my son."

"Can you?" taunted the Assassin, his dark eyes boring into Haytham. "Will you really protect the one destined to be your downfall?"

Now Connor stepped forward, something sparking behind those dark eyes of his. "What do you know of destiny?" he questioned, watching the Assassin with an intense gaze. "What could you possibly know about me or anyone else?"

The Assassin smirked. "We know all about you, Connor Kenway, we've known from the beginning what you are and what you will be." He grinned a toothy grin, stabbing his head in the direction of Haytham. "Whether you believe me or not, you _will _be his downfall, and the downfall of the entire Templar Order." He said no more for Haytham had finally grown tired of his nonsensical mutterings. The shot that rang out was loud, sharp with finality, dampening the sound of the Assassin's blood as it splattered across the ground and the robes he wore.

"Enough of that," muttered Haytham, reloading his pistol before sliding it back into his belt. He turned, finding Connor's hard stare on him. "Fetch my hat, would you, son? I seem to have left it down by the creek."

"Why did you kill him?" asked Connor, his gaze now on the blood steadily soaking into the white robes of the Assassin.

Haytham groaned, feeling the need to ram his face into his palm. "Must I explain this to you every time I kill a man?" he asked, his irritation plain in his words. "He was an Assassin, Connor and more than likely would have killed us, given the chance. You heard him, I presume?"

"I heard him, but what he said made hardly any sense," replied Connor, blinking in confusion. "What did he mean that I will be the Order's downfall?"

"How am I to know? He had to have known he would not be leaving these woods alive, he was searching for someway to pit you against me, so that he might have lived to speak another day. Do not labor on those words, Connor, they mean nothing." He patted his son's shoulder, leaning down to empty the Assassin's pockets. "Now, my hat, if you please?"

* * *

><p>Charles Lee was waiting for them when they arrived back at the Green Dragon Inn. Even after all this time, the inn had remained their base of sorts. He sent a nod in Haytham's direction giving a quiet 'sir' as the Grandmaster swung off his horse. Neither Connor nor Lee said a word to the other, each ignoring the other completely. Haytham had long grown used to their silence. They never spoke to one another unless there was no way around it. He'd spoken with Connor numerous times on how Charles was a good soldier and was one of the few who was as passionate about the Templar Order as Haytham himself. Connor had grudgingly allowed Lee to remain alive, though Haytham himself wasn't sure how long this uneasy truce of sorts was to last between them, as Lee had an ugly scar upon his face from all those years ago and he was certain his second-in-command still harbored ill thoughts for the Grandmaster's son.<p>

"Good evening, Charles," greeted Haytham, moving towards the entrance to the Green Dragon. He was also certain that Charles was jealous of the fact that Connor was always the one to accompany his father on missions and not Charles, himself.

"Sir-" began Charles as Haytham opened the door to the inn. He never got the chance to warn Haytham of what he would see upon opening the inn door. Inside, Thomas Hickey was slurring angrily at a man who stood before a red haired woman, who was just as angry. Hickey's nose was bloody where he'd been punched, most likely by the man.

Haytham rolled his eyes, stepping into the inn and pushing himself through the crowd that had gathered around Hickey, the man and the woman. "Gentlemen," he began, positioning himself between them. "Although I'm quite sure Thomas deserved what he got, we have work to do."

"It was an overreaction on my part," said the woman, pushing the man out of the way. Her green eyes met Haytham's and she flashed him an apologetic smile. "Your man meant me no harm, I'm sure. I wasn't ready for someone to come up behind me."

"Don't mean ya punch a man," grumbled Hickey.

The woman arched a brow. "You should be more careful on whom you sneak up on, sir. If it helps, I apologize for breaking your nose." She passed him a cloth and turned back to Haytham. "He's all yours, sir." She smiled again and moved past him and out the door without another word.

Haytham shook his head, glad to have avoided an all out brawl. He grabbed Hickey's arm and pulled him up the stairs, ignoring Charles's perturbed look and Connor's amused one. He found Johnson at the table, a tired expression on his face. He shook his head as Hickey sauntered over and fell into the chair at the head of the table. Pitcairn spared a glance at Hickey, smirking as he shook his head, as though unsure what to say. Church ignored the drunkard all together. Charles took a seat beside Johnson and Connor took up his normal position by the wall, watching with those speculating dark eyes of his.

The Grandmaster cleared his throat and the men looked towards him. "Johnson, you say you have made some headway, yes?" When Johnson nodded, Haytham spread his hand out invitingly.

Johnson spread out an old wrinkled map careful to keep it out of the way of Hickey's ale mug. He pointed out a spot where he'd circled in the middle of the forest. "This is where the assassins are hiding," he decided, glancing at Haytham, who had leaned his elbows against the table and was listening with genuine interest. "Pitcairn and I have taken multiple trips to this area, and we've found evidence of an underground tunnel. We're not sure where they might lead, but we're hoping it's to a sort of Assassin Den."

Haytham gave a slow nod. "Connor," he began, turning towards his son. Before he could say anything else, Connor pulled a face.

"You want me to infiltrate the den and see how many of them there are, correct?"

Haytham grinned. "Right you are, my boy. Off you go, it's a good few days ride from here to there."

Connor pulled another face and made for the stairs.

"Oh, and Connor, I'll expect you back here with a full report when you're finished."

"What will you be doing?" questioned Connor, throwing a bit of his childish rebelliousness into his words, causing Haytham's eyes to roll.

"Whatever I see fit to be doing at that certain time. Now, go."

The Mohican Templar muttered something in his native tongue as he walked down the stairs, brushing off his father's call of 'what was that, Connor?', with a disregarding hand gesture. He was out the door in moments, his back to his father's amused expression.


	4. Nothing is True

**A/N: Hello lovely readers! As school starts again next week, I hope to get into an updating schedule. My goal is to update **_**every Friday**_**. I'm not sure whether or not I will actually meet that goal, but there it is. I've also renamed this story, so you all know. It's no longer called "**_**Nobody's Hero**_**" but **_**"Assassin's Creed: Catalyst**_**" as that title fits better as I continue to immerse myself in the possibilities in store for this world and these characters. As a side note, I tried my hand at creating a trailer. It's here on YouTube, please give it a watch and tell me what you think! It's not the best, as I only have a generic video maker. **

**I hope you all enjoy this chapter and as always, I do not own these characters, they belong to Ubisoft and please read and review, thank you!**

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><p><strong>chapter three: <strong>_nothing is true_

Connor Kenway looked down at the map, holding it down against the horn of his saddle, frowning. It was crudely drawn, the lines hurried and faded in some places. He glanced back up into the forest around him. He was close, he knew that much, despite the vagueness of the map, but really wasn't sure what he was looking for, whether it be a hole in the ground or some sort of covered entrance. He dismounted from his horse and rolled the map up, sticking it into his pack. He tied his horse up deftly and continued his trek on foot, mentally cursing his father and Johnson for not giving him more information on what he was looking for.

"Not another step," hissed a voice from behind him and Connor froze. "Turn around," the voice came again, "but don't even think about attacking. It will end badly, _for you_." Connor did as he was told, his feet slow. He didn't make a move for any of his weapons as he met the eyes of a young blonde woman. Her attire was entirely made out of brown leather, from her skirt to her cape to her lopsided hat. Her gaze was dark, her musket trained on Connor's head. "What're you doing here?" she growled, "Quick, before I blow your brains out."

"I have come looking for the Assassins," he replied, meeting her steely gaze with one of his own.

"You're a Templar," she pointed out, her finger tightening on the trigger. She hardly reacted as a twig snapped over Connor's shoulder, which he would have whirled towards had the woman before him not been seconds away from putting a hole in the center of his forehead.

He tensed as something sharp traced the back of his neck. Then it was gone, replaced instead at his wrist. It yanked him back against another body. The cool metal was replaced by a hand and the hook gracefully slid up around Connor's neck. He wanted to lash out, but doubted he would live long if he did. So he stayed still despite all his instincts screaming at him.

"What's a little lone knight doin' out here, hm?" rasped the voice in Connor's ear, causing disgust to claw up his stomach. He once again resisted the urge to lash out. "What d'ya think we should do with 'im, Burke?"

"I say we take him back to The Bear, show him what it means to intrude on the Assassins," replied the woman, Burke.

The man behind Connor gave a faint nod, removed the hook and then pounded it against the back of Connor's head. The unsuspecting son of the Templar Grandmaster dropped like a rock and Burke and the man shook their heads before grabbing him under the armpits and began to drag him unceremoniously through the woods.

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><p>Connor woke to voices around him, voices he didn't recognize. His head was pounding and the air was stale and cold. He sat up with a grunt and the voices ceased. He opened his eyes, peering into the dimness around him. He was underground and surrounded by the Assassin Brotherhood. There were nine of them, each dressed in their own version of the Assassin robes, each wearing the gauntlet that concealed their hidden blades.<p>

Standing closer to him than the others was a large Native American man clothed in heavy padded animal-skins, adorned with intricate necklaces and feathers. His only hair ran from the middle of his head down the back of his neck, only adding to his sinister appearance. His large arms were crossed over his broad chest and his dark eyes stared down unrelentingly at Connor. "Why are you here?" he asked with a voice of steel.

He speculated lying, but looking about at all the angry faces he decided that wasn't the best course of action. So he told the truth. "I am a scout for the Templar Grandmaster, Haytham Kenway."

A ripple went through the Assassins and the large male, the one Burke had called 'The Bear' narrowed his eyes into a deeper glare. "Give me a reason why I shouldn't have your throat slit right here." His hand itched towards his club.

An Assassin from the back stepped forward, his clothes adorned with bright greens, reds and browns. His head was bald, but a few feathers could be seen from the back of his head. He watched Connor with a dark, wise gaze. "He is the catalyst, Kuruk," he said gruffly, glancing towards The Bear, with those dark eyes.

Another ripple went through the Assassin's and Burke shook her head. "Impossible," she snapped, glaring at the bald tomahawk wielding Assassin, "it said he would be one of us. He's a no good lying Templar scum, he cannot be our catalyst."

"Peace, Emily." The bald man held up his hands in a calming motion. "I do not make the prophecies, I only listen to their words. Did you not listen? It also said, the Grandmaster's _kin _would be the one to bring him down. It is none other than the kin of the Grandmaster before us. What more proof do you need?"

"You are a fool if you think I will trust _the son of Haytham Kenway_ just because of your damn prophecy," snarled Emily Burke, spitting at Connor's feet and turning on her heels, stalking out of the room.

Connor had, had enough. "What is going on!?" he exploded, earning disapproving glares from the remaining Assassins.

A tall man, his face shadowed by a tricorn hat that was similar to Connor's father stepped forward. His black coat swept keenly about his booted feet. He gestured a hand towards Connor and then at the bald man. "Atasa:ta, believes you to be the catalyst spoken of in a prophecy told to him by his spirit ancestors." His voice had a French tint to it, though most of the accent seemed to have vanished. "The prophecy says, that the Grandmaster's kin will bring about his downfall, and the downfall of the Colonial Rite Templars." He pointed at Connor's face. "That, _mon ami_, is you."

Connor shook his head, watching this man with distrust. "My loyalty is to my father and the Templar Order." His voice was steely, his mind made, though he couldn't deny that he was curious. If what they said was true, did it mean not matter what - no matter what side he was on - that he would be the one to kill his father and destroy the Order he stood for.

"'E's hopeless, Prix," said a blonde man leaning on the wall, Connor recognized his voice as the male that had been with Burke. "I say we slit his throat, send 'im back to his daddy as a little gift from ours to his." He pulled a small knife from his belt and stepped forward.

Atasa:ta grabbed his shoulder. "No, we cannot kill him. He is our catalyst, whether he would like to admit it or not. He will come to us when the time is right. We let him go, and allow him to come to us on his own, for he will." And they knocked Haytham Kenway's son unconscious once again and proceeded to dispose of him miles from their camp.

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><p>"Back so soon?" questioned Haytham Kenway as the door to his room was opened and Connor came in. "What did you find?" He glanced up and arched a brow at his son's condition. There was an egg like lump to the right side of Connor's head and his lip was split. "Gave you some trouble, hm?"<p>

"Father," began Connor, and Haytham's brow arched further at the doubt in his son's voice, "what is it the Templars seek?"

Haytham frowned, sitting back in his chair. "Order. Purpose. Direction. You know this. What happened out there?" His full attention was fixed on his son, and the struggle on his face.

Connor scuffed, pushing the toe of his boot around on the floor and only spoke upon further prompting from Haytham. "They captured me… And then told me I was their catalyst…" His voice trailed off and his face twisted. "What does that mean?"

Haytham shook his head, returning some of his attention back to his journal. A small chuckle slid from his lips. "It means nothing, son. They are desperate to gain you, because you are a valuable piece for both our Orders. Do not to labor on it, it will only distract you."  
>"They seemed to believe it."<p>

"They're Order is small, they need any sense of hope they can get."

"What if there is some truth to their tale though, father?"

Now, Haytham turned back towards his son, a slightly unsettled look upon his usually calm features. "If it is true, then it means that not only will you betray me, but you will betray the whole of the Templar Order. I am not willing to put my faith in such a prophecy, I hope you understand."

The younger of the pair gave a faint nod as his father closed his journal and stood. "Let us make use of your return. Benjamin Church has been … _distant_ lately. Tonight, Charles and I trail him. I'd like you to come." Again, Connor nodded and his father patted his shoulder as he passed him. "Good, get some rest then come find us." Then Haytham was gone, slipping out the door to his room and left Connor alone.

He slipped down the stairs, a thoughtful look on his face. A look that did not go unnoticed. As he took his seat in the downstairs of the inn, the red haired woman from the days before arched a careful brow and looked his way. She sauntered over, laying herself into the chair opposite him. "You look like a man with a lot on his mind, care for a drink? Might ease your mind." She wore a white man's button up shirt, and her pants were also men's; dark brown and loose. At the hollow of her throat rested a stone, it's surface a shimmering green.

Haytham met her eyes and held up a hand, shaking his head. "No, thank you, miss." She shrugged and propped her boots up on the table. She waved over the innkeeper and ordered herself a mug of ale, grinning at Haytham's surprised expression. "What?" she questioned, "never heard of a woman drinking?" She grinned again.

"Not something I'm accustomed to," he replied smoothly, leaning back. The prophecy slowly faded away into the back of his head, thanks to this rather beautiful woman before him. Her hair was fiery, pulled back in a horsetall. A few strands framed her face, one falling across her emerald green eyes.

She winked at him as she was given her drink and she took a big gulp before setting it down and watching Haytham. "Emeline Carter," she held out her hand, her lips curving into a small smile.

He took her hand and gave it a firm shake, her dainty hand dwarfed by his larger one, a small smile flirting with his own lips. "Haytham Kenway, pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Carter."

"You as well, Mister Kenway," she grinned, taking her hand back and taking another long drink from her mug. "What's on your mind?" she asked, regarding him with a curious flicker in her emerald eyes.

He waved off the question easily. "Nothing of importance." Of course, it was of immense importance. His son could possibly be his downfall, and the downfall of the Order he'd worked so hard to keep running. It wasn't so much his downfall that bothered him, Charles could also keep up his work, but if Connor was this 'catalyst' and he killed all of the members of the Colonial Rite Templars, then who would bring it back to life?

Emeline arched a brow. "You're a mysterious man, Haytham Kenway." He smirked, and chose not to answer as she tipped her mug back and drank again. The two of them talked until Charles walked through the door of the Green Dragon Inn, meeting Haytham's eyes, giving a faint nod.

"Excuse me, Miss Carter," Haytham Kenway said as he stood. "I must be off. Perhaps we will meet again?"

She tipped her mug towards him. "I look forward to it, Kenway."

He tipped his hat at her and moved to join Charles as Connor made his way down the stairs. "Who was that?" grumbled Charles as the three Templars made their way out of the Green Dragon.

"A woman as acquainted with the drink as Thomas," replied Haytham, starting off down the street at a brisk pace. "Come along, gentleman, we have Church to trail."

Something strange happened then. Connor and Charles shared a glance, both wearing confused looks. Then Connor's lip curled in disgust and he set off after his father and Charles's gaze turned perturbed, as he too stretched his stride to catch up with the Grandmaster.

From the rooftops, Emily Burke and Fillian McCarthy watched the Templars, sharing a blank look before beginning their own mission; hunting the hunters.


	5. Everything is Permitted

**A/N: Here's the next chapter. It's a little shorter than the former ones, but it's here none the less. This is the main chapter, but I'm posting at least one extra chapter that's a page from Haytham's journal. I may get to writing one for Connor. If I don't get to it today, I'll just put it up when I finish it. I realized that the link for the YouTube trailer didn't work last chapter so I'm just giving away the URL in this one: **** watch?v=ebMWULf4tsU **

**As always, I own nothing. I'd love to hear from everyone on how you're liking it. I'm sorry that it's going a little slow, hopefully things will start picking up in the next few chapters. **

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><p><strong>chapter four: <strong>_everything is permitted _

They found Benjamin Church consulting with a group of redcoats near the pier. He spoke in hushed ones, so Haytham couldn't hear what he was saying but the Grandmaster knew that it wasn't going to be something he liked. He straightened his clothes and stepped out from behind a crate.

"Good evening, Benjamin," he greeted, his lips twisting into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Pleasant night, isn't it?"

Benjamin visibly stiffened. He turned, slowly. "Haytham," he greeted, his voice firm.

"What do we have here, hm?" Haytham spread out a hand to gesture at the four redcoats, who now had their fingers on the triggers of their muskets. "Consulting with the British?"

"It's not what you think," replied Church quickly and Haytham quirked a brow.

"Then, by all means, Benjamin, tell me what it is."

"I-" Church started, then realized he had no cover story and moved as though to flee. Haytham pulled his pistol in the same instant and pulled the trigger, downing Church with a bullet to leg at the same moment that Connor and Charles leaped out of their hiding spots and threw themselves into the group of redcoats.

The fight was quick, Connor and Charles took out the redcoats with ease and Haytham placed the tip of his sword at Church's throat. "You betrayed us," said Haytham calmly, his eyes deadly.

Church scrambled to get away. He said nothing in defense of himself, he knew Haytham well enough that the Grandmaster wouldn't take any sort of excuse.

"We had a _dream_, Benjamin!" snarled Haytham, throwing down his sword, and punching Benjamin in the face. Behind the Grandmaster, Connor winced at the crack of Church's nose breaking. He wound up to punch his old friend again but his son grabbed his arm.

"At least allow him the mercy of a quick death, father," said Connor softly, though there was anger in his expression. For a moment, father and son stared at each other, as if challenging the other to step down. Then, Haytham sighed, brushed Connor's hand from his arm and plunged his hidden blade into Church's throat. He stood and collected his sword, turning and walking away.

After a moment, both Charles and Connor followed the Grandmaster back through the streets and towards the Green Dragon Inn. Connor glanced back over his shoulder at the scene, narrowing his eyes when he saw movement. He glanced towards his father and Lee to tell them but they were deep in conversation and quite far ahead. He sighed and made his way back towards Church's body. There was a small envelope waiting for him atop the body and he crouched, cautiously picking it up.

_You have the makings of an Assassin, Connor Kenway. _

The handwriting was crude and had he not grown up reading his mother's own hand he might not have been able to read it. He drew away from the words as if they'd bitten him and scowled. He stood, crushing the paper in his hand. "What do you want?" he snarled into the night, turning around on his heels, searching for the source of the note. "I am not your catalyst, and I will not be your pawn." He dropped the crumbled piece of paper and picked up his pace to catch up to Lee and his father.

* * *

><p>"What 'bout that one? Gill's 'er name, right?" questioned Hickey, nodding in the direction of the fiery haired Gillian McCarthy from where she sat on the edge of the bar, chatting idly with a man entranced by her charm and open cut green and white dress. She seemed to know that she was being talked about and cast a glance over her shoulder, giving a coy smile and a little wave when she caught Connor's eye.<p>

Connor returned his gaze down at the table, hoping to God that no one noticed the flush crawling up his neck. "I am perfectly fine on my own, thanks," he muttered under his breath and Hickey snorted.

"Don' be ridiculous, boy," chuckled the drunkard, "ya can't deny she's a pretty little thing." He elbowed Connor and took a swig from his mug, leaning onto the back two legs of his chair. "G'an' talk t'her," he invited, grinning, "she keeps lookin' at ya. Ya can't back out now."

"Leave the boy alone, would you?" muttered Johnson who was pouring over more of his maps on the other side of the table. "If he doesn't want to talk to her, he doesn't have to." Connor shot him a grateful look.

Hickey pulled a face. "I ain't askin' 'im t'kiss 'er! Jus' go talk t'her!" He gave Connor another elbow to the ribs and the Grandmaster's son jumped slightly at the impact. Thomas Hickey watched the younger Kenway over his mug as he drank, raising his eyebrows.

"Fine," Connor hissed, rising and moving away from the table, more so to escape Hickey's abuse than anything else. As he was walking away, Hickey gave a crowing laugh and when Connor glanced back at him the other Templar raised his mug towards Connor and drank deeply. Connor pulled a face of disgust and slid himself into a seat close to the Lady Maverick. He ordered himself a drink despite his dislike for it and took a sip, pulling a face as it burned his throat.

How the hell did Hickey drink this all the time?

He was setting it back down as Gillian excused herself and swung over by him, tracing the line of his shoulders with a finger as she lowered herself into the chair next to him. "Hello, Connor," she greeted, watching him from behind long lashes. Her accent was faint, her lips curved into a seductive smile. Connor knew very well that her talents had gained the Order a whole load of information they would have taken by force had it not been for her tactics.

"Hello," he offered in reply, shifting in his seat so he was facing her. "I didn't take you from something did I?" he asked, glancing towards the man she'd previously graced with her presence. There was a crestfallen glaze to his face and he didn't seem to know what to do with himself at the moment.

Gillian scoffed, shaking her head. "Of course not," she replied, "it was just a little fun." She laid her chin on her palm and watched him through emerald eyes. "How're you faring?" she asked.

"Well," replied Connor, forcing another sip of the beer down his throat. "And you?"

She gave a small nod. "Me as well." She smiled at him, flashing her pearly white teeth and dazzling him with them. "I heard about this 'prophecy' of yours. What do you think the Assassin's want to achieve with that?"

Connor shrugged. "My father believes they are trying to pit me against this Order."

Gillian arched a patient brow. "I didn't ask what your father thought. I asked what you thought."

He shrugged again. "I believe as he does. They are trying to use me, because they believe I can be used."

"And can you?"

"No," said Connor firmly, "I am going to show them what a horrible mistake it was to try and turn me against my Order." He took another sip from the mug, starting to get used to the burn of the liquor. Gillian looked on admiringly, giving a soft nod.

"Sounds like you're a force to be reckoned with," she murmured, watching him. The younger Kenway shrugged, not exactly knowing how to reply to that. This seemed to amuse Gillian for she laughed, the sound bright. "I like that," she said and Connor glanced at her, taking in the way her eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Gillian!" called Gerhard Vonstatten from the doorway of the inn. "Practice in five!" He ducked back out, closing the door behind him.

Gillian rolled her eyes, giving an exaggerated sigh. She leaned forward and brushed her lips across Connor's cheek. "We'll resume this little talk later," she promised, leaning back with an alluring smile. She slid off the seat and slipped out the door.

After a few minutes, another individual opened the door to the Green Dragon Inn. Connor looked up and met the eyes of a man he recalled from the Assassin's Den. The man's hidden blade momentarily came out and his hand itched towards his hook-like weapon. Then he vanished out the door.

Connor rose and slipped out the door in pursuit. The man with the scarf covering the bottom half of his face led Connor through the streets into a darkened alley way. When Connor came around the corner the Assassin silently observed him.

"What do you want?" snapped Connor and the Assassin's face twitched as though he were smirking.

"Must I elaborate, Connor Kenway? I am quite certain you know what we want. I"m here to convince you." His voice was smooth, but held a darkness beneath it's velvety tones. Connor knew this man was dangerous.

"You cannot change my mind," said Connor.

The man's brows arched beneath the shadows of his hat. "Can't I? Your father would have tortured Mister Church had you not stopped him. I am sure we both know that. Not only does he refuse to get rid of Lee after what the man did do your home, but he often confides in the man. _You are his son_, and yet he trusts a traitor more than he trusts you. Strange, isn't it? If he truly cared for your mother has he's said, then how could he stand to be under the same roof as her murderer?"

Connor opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He didn't even know what to say. He wanted to say something in defense of his father, but there was nothing that came to mind. All that this strange figure had said was true. Rarely did Haytham voice his thoughts to Connor. It was rare that Haytham voiced his thoughts to anyone, but if he were to speak them to anyone they'd be to Charles Lee. He pursed his lips, looking down. He pushed the toe of his boot around on the ground, thoughts running a mile a minute.

"What do you want me to do?"

The Night Stalker grinned. "Follow me," and then he was gone, slipping away into the shadows that he lived in. Connor had no choice but follow...


	6. 28 June 1776: Haytham

_Extracts from the Journal of Haytham Kenway _

29 June 1776

Benjamin Church betrayed us. I will not say that I did not see it coming. In days prior, his presence had been lacking and when he was around, he had very little to say. Still, it pains me to admit that I had been hoping there would be some reconciling with him. I do not compromise with traitors but he was, afterall, a friend and a good man and I would have liked to have saved him from his greed. It's been hours since I ended his life and I must be brief on this subject for fear of going mad with guilt.

I had wanted to torture him. I have wanted men to hurt before, and this was no difference. Though what sort of man am I if I cannot show mercy to a man whom I once called brother? Had Connor not be there, I fear I would not be writing this now but would still be making Church pay. I have sinced calm my rage and I am quite glad I showed him mercy.

Connor has been distant lately. I worry that all this 'catalyst' nonsense is getting to his head. I can see the doubt in his eyes when he looks at me. There has always been slivers of it there, ever since I refused to send Charles away. But never have I seen his distrust in me so strong. Hickey says he went after Gillian McCarthy earlier this week but came back hours later with a frown.

I do not believe he went after Gillian. I do not know where he could have gone but I believe the Assassins have made contact with him and something they said has brought something to life in his thoughts. I fear that they have planted the seed that will distance him from me and the Order. Connor is quick to believe whatever is thrown into his face and I know this will be his downfall - and perhaps the downfall of this Order, as the prophecy says.

He is asleep now, for it is late, but in the morning I hope to speak with him about this. I cannot just sit idly by and let the Assassins control him. He is all I have left of Ziio. He is more and more like her every day. The more he grows, the more his eyes resemble hers and the more he distrusts the more I see her own distrust in me.

I only hope I can get to him before the Assassins completely change him.


	7. Bloody Business

**A/N: I'm very sorry that I'm so late, life's been hectic! Hopefully this week I'll be on time. So I have a bigger range, I'm going to ssay that I should be updating sometime between Friday and Sunday night. This week isn't going to be as rough, so I should be able to write during the week. Anyways! We've finally gotten the ball rolling. I plan on some more action packed chapters in the future! There's a slight bit of sexual content in this chapter, right in the beginning. It's nothing too graphic, I'm just pointing it out so it doesn't come as a complete shock. **

**All disclaimers in previous chapters amply. As always, please read, favorite and review! I'd love to hear what you guys think of the events in this chapter and previous ones. Also, if you've been enjoying this story, please check out what else I've written!**

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><p><strong>chapter five: <strong>_bloody business _

_Extract from the Journal of Connor Kenway _

_1 July 1776 _

_I have been meeting with the Assassins for a few days now. I cannot say that I trust them, but I am not completely at odds with them. They have filled my head with talk of peace and freedom. I cannot say that I disagree with their ideals, though my father has always expressed that freedom is an invitation to chaos and that there cannot be a world without order. Although I can see the truth in my father's ideals, I cannot disregard those of the Brotherhood. My father's beliefs are similar to the Assassin's in many ways, and I cannot help but wonder what past he is keeping from me. _

_In the end, I do not believe I can be the Assassins' catalyst. To be that, I would have to kill my father and despite all the scuffles we have had in the years, I cannot imagine killing him. Though he has done wrong and though he leads and trusts men like Charles Lee I know there is good in him. _

_In happier matters, Gillian McCarthy and I have been spending time together. She doesn't look at me as though I am about to betray the Order like Church, as I catch Lee doing. He still has not forgiven me for his scar. I daresay he never will, but I do not want his forgiveness. _

_I appreciate Gillian's friendship and I hope she will be a valuable ally to me in this time of confusion and doubt. She is not only a skilled fighter but a strong presence. She isn't afraid to speak her mind and in recent days she and I have spent much of our time either training or just talking. I do not know how I feel about her, only that I know I enjoy her company and treasure the time we have spent together._

* * *

><p>There was a knock at Connor's door and he looked up, shutting his journal. He gave the word to enter and the door opened to reveal Gillian McCarthy. Though the lighting in Connor's room was dim and the outside world was dark, the candlelight illuminated her mischevious smirk. "Hello Connor," she greeted, draping herself against the doorway. "May I come in?" He nodded and she closed the door, watching him.<p>

"You've been scarce lately," she said. It wasn't an accusation, just an observation. Connor shrugged, glancing down. He didn't know what to say. She moved to him and slid her hand to cup his face, tilting his head up. "What are you worried about, Kenway?" she asked and he searched her eyes.

"I do not want to be their pawn," he said slowly, watching her face. It didn't change, nor did the position of her thumb, which was slowly rubbing across his face.

"Who's?" she asked, tilting her head in confusion, her face creasing.

"The Assassins'," he replied after a length of silence.

She gave a slow nod. "Then don't be," she murmured, leaning closer to him. "Be their downfall. Be the Templars' catalyst."

His heart beat was accelerating, their breath mingling. Then she closed the centimeters between them and kissed him. Her kiss was sweet, innocently seductive. Her fingers slid back into his hair, his own hands at her waist. His lips responded to hers despite his never being kissed before and despite his desire to pull back slightly. She, however, was obviously skilled. She coaxed his lips apart, keeping them close, fitting her mouth over his, deepening the kiss. Her hands slid down his chest, hooking at his belt.

Connor slowly slid his arms about her body, tugging her closer to him. Her lips became more desperate against his and her fingers twined into his hair. She moved to remove his shirt when footsteps came at the landing and the two pulled apart. Connor whirled to his journal, leaning over it and Gillian swept to the wind just as the door opened.

"Get dressed, Connor," said Haytham sternly, pausing as he surveyed the scene. Gillian was smoothing her hair, biting at her lip and Connor was avoiding eye contact with both of them. Haytham crossed his arms behind his back and cleared his throat, nodding at Gillian to acknowledge her presence. "We have a problem," he said, tilting his head towards his son.

Connor stood, grabbing his jacket and his hat. "What has happened?" he asked, placing the tricorn hat on his head and turning to follow his father out of the room, feeling a flush crawl up his neck as Gillian followed them out, now a professional Templar seductress.

Haytham was silent for an uncomfortable moment, his footsteps slowly considerably. "Charles has been attacked," he said and walked down the stairs and out the door. Gillian passed Connor as he stopped at the end of the stairs.

A flash of anger slid through Connor Kenway and he shook his head. Why did his father care so much for Lee? He clenched his fists, his jaw setting in anger. Lee had _killed _his mother and many of his people. The Assassins understood Connor's anger and told him that he had a right to be angry. Haytham never expressed that, just continuously told Connor that Lee's services were required.

"Connor, is something wrong?" asked Gillian, touching his hand. She glanced behind her, Haytham had already gone out the door. She pecked Connor's lips with an alluring smile. "Don't worry," she grinned, "we can pick back up later." She winked and turned, following Haytham out.

Despite that promise, the Grandmaster's son grumbled and followed Gillian and Haytham out the door. He only hoped that Charles would last the night; if only so Connor could kill the man himself.

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><p>The air was cold and the streets were vacant. The three Templars walked in silence, the only sound the echo of their footsteps. Haytham was leading, with Connor trailing behind, his fists still clenched. He wanted to hit something; particularly either Charles or his father. The Assassins were right, he decided suddenly. He stopped walking, but neither Gillian or Haytham seemed to notice.<p>

_The Assassins were right_. The phrase rocked him to the core and he suddenly felt something cold leaking into his bones. Doubt. His eyes found the back of his father's head and despite his recent journal entry he realized how easy it'd be. He realized that he could pull his pistol and put a bullet straight through his father's brain. Or simply ask Haytham for a word alone, slit his throat and cause a scene. He could easily make Gillian believe it was the Assassins. It wouldn't be that hard, as they already had Haytham in their sights.

His eyes narrowed and he glanced down at his hidden blade, he'd plucked it off the dead body of an Assassin he'd killed a few years ago. He glanced back up at his father, who had not divulged how he'd acquired his own hidden blade. It would be so easy. It could be the perfect accident…

_No! _ The thought slammed into him and he felt physically drained by its impact. He shook his head, putting his fingers to his temple. He couldn't deny the dark thoughts he'd been thinking, but yet he was repulsed by them. That meant something didn't it? For all the thoughts filled with betrayal that had been circulating through his head, he had never acted on any of them. He saw what his father did to people who betrayed the Order and Connor had no intention of ending up like Benjamin Church, oh no, if he was going to be this Catalyst, than he was going to do it the right way. He was going to slowly destroy them from the inside.

Connor Kenway pulled the jacket tighter around himself and resumed walking. He easily caught up with Gillian and Haytham just as they were entering the small hut in which the doctor of Boston lived. The room was dimly lit and smelled of sickness and blood. Neither Gillian nor Haytham reacted to the stench, but Connor was having a hard time not scowling at the foulness. He had to hold back a gag.

The doctor, an elderly man named Abner, waddled into the other room where Charles Lee was laying on an old bed. Sweat shown on his forehead and his chest hitched as he breathed. There was a rattle in his lungs as he took breaths, his skin ashen. Haytham and the doctor exchanged a few words in low tones as Gillian sat herself down in the chair beside Lee's bedside, her expression concerned.

Connor stayed by the door and didn't say a word, watching as Abner took his leave and Haytham stood awkwardly beside his second-in-command's bed. He sighed, looking down slightly, his eyes glazing over slightly. If Connor knew his father at all, he knew that, that was a look that involved Haytham's mysterious past.

"How much longer does he have?" asked Gillian softly, glancing at the Grandmaster. For a moment he was silent and she prompted: "Haytham?" He glanced at her and shrugged, shifting his footing.

"It is doubtful he will last the night," replied Haytham. Connor narrowed his eyes, watching him. He waited for the crack in his father's mask, waited for the emotion that came when Haytham didn't think the others were watching him. It didn't come, he simply watched the fevered twitchings of Lee's eyeballs beneath their lids.

Connor shook his head, his lips twisting slightly in disgust. Despite his hate for Lee, he still couldn't believe that Haytham could stare coldly down at the man that was his friend and his most trusted advisor. He crossed his arms and was just turning his attention away when he heard:

"Forgive me, Charles…"

Connor's gaze snapped towards his father, but Haytham was slipping out the door and out into the night before the younger could question the emotion in those three words. He glanced back towards Lee and shook his head. Then he followed his father out the he got outside, he glanced about but there was no sign of Haytham anywhere.

Gillian appeared at his elbow and she sighed, glancing about. "Poor man," she mumbled, running her fingers back through her hair. Her voice was soft and her voice held an uncharacteristic sympathy. "Perhaps we ought to find him?" she wondered aloud, glancing up and down the streets for any sign of the Grandmaster.

Connor frowned, shaking his head. "He does not want to be bothered. If he had wanted our words, he would have stuck around to hear them." He shook his head again. "He is long gone. He will only return when he wishes to be talked to." He shrugged, happening to glance up at the right moment to see an eagle feather slowly drift to the ground across the way. He glanced at Gillian but she wasn't paying attention.

She gave a faint nod, distracted. "Are you heading back to the inn?" she asked.

Connor nodded.

She nodded back. "If anyone's looking, I'll be here for a while."

The Native American Templar gave a nod and bid her goodnight, walking further into the street. He waited until she had retreated back into the doctor's home before gathering up the eagle feather and setting off for the Assassin's Den.

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><p>"You did it on purpose," accused Connor, pacing the den. Burke and Prix watched him with blank expressions. Neither denied the Templar's accusations, but didn't exactly take responsibility for their actions either. He rounded on them. "Why?" He questioned, his voice lifting in genuine curiosity. Burke didn't move from where she was leaning against a wall, her hair back and her eyes cold.<p>

"You are an intelligent boy," said de Saint-Prix, "I am quite sure you can come to the answer on your own, no?" He fixed Connor with a stare over his book before turning back to it, flipping the page with a flourish.

Connor shook his head, listing off the reasons he thought of, still pacing. After a moment, he threw up his hands, demanding that they tell him.

William de Saint-Prix threw down his book. "_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, rising and grabbing Connor by the shoulders. "If you are at the top," he growled, his accent thicker when he was irritated, "than your father will trust you and will not expect you to stab him in the back." Prix punctuated the last five words by jabbing his pointer finger into Connor's shoulder.

Connor rubbed the spot where he'd been jabbed, pulling a face as Prix turned and returned to his book. "And if this does not kill him?" he questioned, crossing his arms and watching the French assassin with narrowed eyes.

Burke kicked off the wall she'd been leaning on. "Then we slit his throat," she replied, the threatening words sliding easily off her tongue. She gave Connor a once over. "However he dies makes no difference, Kenway. In the end, he will be dead and you will take his place. Then," she watched his face, "you will kill your father."

The Templar opened his mouth as if to disagree when Fillian McCarthy rushed in. He took a moment to regain his breath before delivering the news:

"Charles Lee is dead."


	8. Something Wicked this Way Comes

**A/N: Hello! I know I'm late, but last weekend I was sick and I had no motivation to write and this week was so busy. But tonight, it was finally Friday and I was finally motivated. I wrote all of this in one sitting (as I hadn't written anything last week even though I said I was going to). Things have really taken a turn for the worse and I'm going to just say it right here and now, things ****are going to get dark****. Please, **_**please**_**, leave a little review, I would especially LOVE to hear what you guys all think of this chapter. **

**As always, I do not own **_**Assassin's Creed**_** or the characters from the game. They belong to Ubisoft.**

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><p><strong>chapter six: <strong>_Something Wicked This Way Comes_

A week ago, Charles Lee was laid to rest. A week ago, Haytham gave a speech. A week ago, Connor became second-in-command. The inn was quiet in recent days, no one cared enough to seek each other out. John Pitcairn and William Johnson had returned to their homes quite a ways from the inn. Thomas Hickey was still around the inn, but he was rarely seen without a woman at his arm and a full mug of ale in his hand. Gillian McCarthy had moved back into her home as well, though it was closer to the inn. She and Connor saw each other frequently, but neither really had much to say. The Templar Order was dangling by a thread, a thread that was just waiting for someone to come and cut it in half.

Haytham was gone. He'd walked out during the drunken gathering after Charles's funeral and said that he needed air. No one had seen him since, and no one had gone to search him out. They knew Haytham well enough to know that should he need them, he would come for them. But Connor was getting worried. Despite his own fateful role in the prophecy unfolding before them, he was worried. The man was not only his father but his Grandmaster and something just didn't feel right.

He knew his father well enough to know that Haytham Kenway would not just up and vanish like that. He feared the Assassins were involved and that they had given up on him and had taken out Haytham themselves. However, when he arrived at the den, he was met with confusion and blank stares. He'd begged them for information, pleaded with them to tell him the truth, but they were not responsible for Haytham's disappearance.

Day by day, Connor's worries were not diminished and day by day Gillian's attempts to reach him grew less frequent. At last, when he could take it no longer, Connor threw himself down into a chair, leaning his forehead into his hands. He couldn't do this. He didn't know how to run a Templar Order, he didn't know how to call the men to arms and he didn't know how he could do this without his father. He didn't want to be someone's pawn; someone's catalyst.

"Connor?" murmured Gillian, moving to his side and kneeling before him, cupping his face in her hands, running her thumbs across his skin. He looked up at her with sad eyes and her gaze turned sympathetic. "We can go and get Johnson and Pitcairn and we can find him," she offered.

The Mohican Templar gave a faint sigh. "We have no idea what could have happened," he said. "The Assassins…" he paused, "the Assassins have had no involvement in this…Which means someone else got to him…"

Gillian frowned, narrowing her eyes. "How can we trust the Assassins, Connor? You and I both know they killed Charles and they've been trying to pit you against all of us for the longest time. How can we trust our sworn enemies?"

He didn't answer. He didn't have an answer for her, all he knew was that the Assassins were not behind this, at least not the Assassins that he knew. He rose and began pacing, walking back and forth, wringing out his hands. He walked up the stairs and into his father's room. He glanced about for clues as to what could have happened. Then he stopped.

Sitting on Haytham's desk was not only his open journal but his tricorn hat and a folded piece of paper that was leaning against the hat. _Connor_, was written on it in a writing that he didn't recognize. It wasn't his father's. He went towards it and slowly lifted it up, glancing back as Gillian entered the room. She came to his side and looked over his shoulder, her attention on the folded parchment in Connor's hands.

"Open it," she whispered, as if speaking too loudly would damage the paper.

Connor's shaking fingers slowly unfolded the paper. When he reached the last fold he paused. His heart wanted to leap from his chest, his pulse thundering in his ears. He was consumed suddenly with the desire to tear this note to shreds, then with the need to unfold it and read whatever was scrawled across it. He took a deep breath and opened it. His heart nearly stopped. His breath choked and the only sound was of his pulse, pounding. Even Gillian's breathing had stopped.

_Say goodbye to your grandmaster. _

The handwriting was neat, curvy and practiced. He knew no hand like this and the dread that filled him felt all the heavier thanks to that. He was shaking again, the page fluttering in his fingers. Then he saw something he hadn't seen before, and wondered how he hadn't as it was all his eyes could focus on now.

_Blood_. It was splattered on the edges, little droplets of blood. He swallowed, his throat constricted. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't even begin to think. He crumpled the note and broke away from Gillian, flinging it into the fire. He stumbled away from it, his whole frame shaking. His father. His father was in grave danger. His father could be dead and he was standing in the man's room _shaking_. He cursed himself to hell and back for that moment, but he didn't know what to do. He was at a stand still. Gillian was speaking to him, but he couldn't focus on her words. He was pacing, running his hands through his hair, wringing out his hands.

Then she was there, grounding him, her hands on his face. "Connor," she said his name smoothly, pulling him close and wrapping him in his arms. He let her hold him, his world slowly collapsing. He blamed himself. He should have done something, he shouldn't have been naive and he shouldn't have listen to the Assassins. Perhaps none of this would have happened.

When at last he found his breath he took a deep breath, slowly rubbing his finger across Gillian's hand, her closeness calming him. Finally he managed to find his words. "What do you think happened?" he asked, pausing. He didn't have to look at her to know there was a sad look in her eyes.

"I … I don't know how we'll find him…" she said softly.

He held up a hand. "Don't-"

"Dead or alive…"

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><p>Her lips touched his and his responded gently at first, then with added vigor. He pulled her unclothed body closer to him, sliding a hand down her sides. She slide her fingers into his hair, the tie that once held it together long gone and forgotten on the cold ground. Nothing mattered to Haytham right then, nothing but the feel of Ziio's skin against his and the furs beneath and all around him.<p>

He pulled back slightly, looking up into her eyes, which were glowing gently. She caressed his cheek gently, leaning her forehead against his. She looked like she wanted to say something, and that she either didn't know how to say it or that she didn't want to. She leaned her head into the crook of his shoulder and closed her eyes. Her breath was hot against his skin and she arched into his touch as he slid his hand down her back.

"Ziio," he breathed as her lips hovered at his neck, teasing his skin. "I-" She moved up and stole his lips with hers, gently bracing her hands on either side of his head. He cupped her face again, leaning up and kissing her back just as deeply. Then, as their kiss grew more intense and he was bringing her as close as he could, an ache began to settle at the pit of his stomach. He paid it no mind as he pushed her down, kissing her deeply, but then it grew to an agony, roaring through him like fire. He gasped, tearing his lips from hers.

Glancing down at himself, all he saw was the blooding spreading across his abdomen and the increasing pain. Her name danced across his lips and he looked up at her, something like panic burning through his veins. Usually, he was fine with the idea of death. It didn't bother him, not after seeing so much of it. But at that moment in time, all Haytham wanted to do was live. He had never remembered wanting to live this much before, the desire filled him up and nearly drove him mad.

Her hands cupped his face, her forehead against his. "Shh," she murmured, stroking his feverish skin. His hands were shaking, trying to grip her. He gasped her name and she kissed him sweetly. "Hush, Haytham," she murmured holding his hands, sliding her arms around him, holding him close as though he were a child. He choked, blood trickling from his lips. He shuddered and she gripped him tighter, holding him against her chest. "Shh… Just open your eyes, Haytham. It's alright, you'll be okay…"

Haytham jerked, his body straining against the bonds that held him in place. He sagged against them, skin tingling at the memory of Ziio's lips against his and her arms around him. His hands were still shaking and he was in pain. It spread through him and he gagged on it, spitting out a glob of blood that splashed across the ground in front him. He groaned, his head aching, his left eye refusing to open.

Then it all came rushing back. The girl, only a few youngers than Connor, with Jenny's smile, had grinned at him and said that Jenny was there, in Boston looking for him. Though the two had never been terribly close, his half-sister still meant a great deal to Haytham and he'd gone. It wasn't long after his departure from the inn. He'd followed the girl he didn't know into the darkness and that's where he lost her. She'd just vanished and then she was there, behind him, the end of her musket slamming into the back of his head and then he'd seen only the night sky before darkness rushed in and everything fell silent.

He'd been unceremoniously woken by a cold bucket of water being dumped over his head in an abandoned warehouse, he knew that much. He didn't know if he was close to Boston, or if he was even still in the city. He could have been in New York for all he knew. When he'd gotten done spitting out water, the woman that resembled Jenny had stepped over to him and grinned maliciously. She'd grinned him and told him what she was going to do.

That she was going to make him pay, because he had once been an Assassin but he had betrayed them to their archenemies. Haytham, of course, had argued, that he had done what he had to, to survive. That she would have done the same had she been in the same situation. She had laughed at him and shook her head, denying that. "I would have been loyal to my creed," she'd snapped in return, pulling a small knife from her belt.

She'd stabbed him then. Right in the side, nothing to kill him but to hurt him enough that he would understand it was unlikely that he was going to get out of this alive. Then she'd told him who she was; told him that she'd taken her mother's maiden last name so he'd know her by name.

Claire Scott. His half-sister's daughter. His niece.


	9. A Reluctant Partnership

**A/N: This is the longest chapter yet, at almost 3 thousand words! We're close the end, guys. Not too many chapters left. I'd like to thank everyone for reading, reviewing, following and favoriting; it means a lot to me! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter and how you think it's all going to turn out in the end. **

**I do have some plans on what I'll write next, so be sure to check that out when it happens. Without further ado, I give you one of the final chapters in AC: Catalyst and a fair warning that it is a little darker than earlier chapters. **

**As always, these characters do not belong to me. They're property of Ubisoft, the story, however, is mine. **

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><p><strong>chapter seven: <strong>_A Reluctant Partnership_

"What d'ya say it said 'gain, Connor?" asked Hickey, his eyebrows drawing together. No one said anything, the message on the note that now lay in ashes was clear and it didn't need to be repeated. "Well…" Hickey drew out the word, as though testing it. "We outta g'an' find the bastard, don'cha think?"

"It's not going to be that simple," said William Johnson, leaning his lips against his interlocked hands thoughtfully. Connor could see the wheels turning in the man's head, trying to figure out what could have happened. "You say the Assassins had no involvement?" When Connor nodded, he gave a faint nod of his own. He looked like he was going to say something when the door to the inn opened and in walked Emily Burke.

Connor was on his feet in seconds, tomahawk read. Johnson had his pistol at her head and Gillian had her knife pulled back, ready to throw it. Burke narrowed her eyes and held up her hands. "I want to be here less than you want me here," she snapped, "but Kuruk's been killed and I can only think of one person that could be behind it. The catalyst," she glanced at Connor, her eyes still narrowed.

"How do I know I can trust you?" growled Connor, his eyes just as narrow.

Emily threw down her musket, the clatter echoing. "I - _We're_ here because we want to avenge our friend and mentor," she snapped, "if we wanted you dead, you'd already be." She got up close in his face, jabbing him with a finger. "I watched _someone_ run him through, Kenway. I watched someone I'd never seen before kill the strongest Assassin I know by coming up behind him and sliding a sword through his chest. I want revenge, and you want to find your Grandmaster. I may not like it, but our interests are aligned."

"Yeah?" Hickey's voice spoke up, his brow raised. "An' how long will they be?"

Burke fixed him with a glare. "Until this is over," she replied with a snarl. She retrieved her musket and pushed past Connor, claiming a seat away from them. "What's the plan?" she asked, looking from the suspicious Templars to Connor.

Connor cleared his throat and replaced his tomahawk at his belt. He took a seat back at the table. "We do not have a plan," he replied and when the disdain in her eyes multiplied, he shot, "we do not even know what we're looking for."

Burke gave an exaggerated noise and Hickey glanced at her. "Don' think y'know anythin' eitha', girl." She sent him a glare and he gave her a smug grin in response.

The group spent most of the rest of the night arguing over what course to take. It was mostly Hickey and Burke doing the arguing but Pitcairn got into it with William de Saint-Prix when the French Assassin and several of the other Assassins joined the company. Johnson had seemingly given up on trying to input anything and after a while, Connor gave up as well, sitting with his head bowed and his eyes closed.

When at last the cross voices became too much, the Mohican slammed his tomahawk down against the table. "Enough," his voice wasn't loud, nor was it angry. It was low and irritated. But it carried just as it was meant to and every mouth shut. Even Hickey kept his trap shut as Connor got to his feet and began pacing. "If we ever had any hope of finding him," said Connor, "I would rather it not be dashed by you group of fools." He paused and leaned his hands against the table, fixing them all with a cold glare.

"I am not asking that we get along, I am only requesting that we remain allies for as long as it takes to set this right. I want my father, and you want your revenge," he spread his hands out invitingly, "perhaps, this could even be the bridge we need to reduce the gap between our two orders." He turned his eyes to William Johnson. "Johnson, I want a map marked of all the abandoned storage houses, churches; anything our target could be using to hide out." Johnson gave a nod and rose, rushing to consult his maps. "Pitcairn," he turned to the other Templar, "I want all your ears out looking for clues." Pitcairn was out the door in moments.

He turned to Gillian, Hickey and the group of Assassins. "Who is your second in command?" He asked them. A large man holding a spear and wearing thick broan regal-looking furs stepped forward, giving a dip of his head. "You, Burke, Gillian and myself will attempt to figure out some courses of action. Hickey and Eleanor, I'd like to go with some of the Assassins and scope out where we could post soldiers."

As Thomas Hickey and Eleanor Mallow rose and joined William de Saint-Prix, and Alsoomese, Nukilik's picks, by the door, Connor was having a hard time deciding who was more bothered by working with the Assassins; Hickey or Mallow. A grumbled whisper of greeting went through the group before they moved out of the inn, leaving Connor, Gillian, Nukilik and the assorted Templars and Assassins.

Nukilik gave his Assassins jobs, much the same as Connor had. Caleb Garret joined William Johnson at the maps, Joe joined Pitcairn in spreading the word to the informants, and Fillian was sent out with Connor's choice of Victor Wolcott to call in any favors that the two groups owed in order to quicken the end of their hunt for the Templar Grandmaster and the Assassins desire for revenge.

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><p>Emeline Carter was a clever woman. She knew where to wander freely, where to step lightly and where to avoid all together. It was a sense of sorts by which she knew and she usually trusted that sense. Usually. However, this day was probably the only time she wouldn't regret not trusting the sense that told her to stay away from the building. She listened, her ear pressed up against the wood for any sounds. When she heard none, she crossed to the front of the building and slowly peered inside.<p>

She called softly, "Hello?" Her voice echoed slightly in the darkened space. When no reply came, she closed the door behind her and entered, sending a sweeping glance about what she could see. Despite the building being run down and abandoned, it was still in good shape, which only left small pockets of sunlight to stream in through the roof. She stuck to the edges of the light, just enough that she'd be able to see but someone would have a hard time seeing her.

She crept through the darkness, her heart beat pounding in her ears, her chest constricted at the knowledge that this was most likely private property and that she shouldn't be there. A sound. To the left of her. She froze, her heart threatening to beat right out of her chest. She wished she would have thought to bring some sort of weapon. Then she realized that probably wouldn't have done her any good. She wasn't a military member, she wasn't a swordswoman, she had no idea how to handle a sword.

Emeline was really second guessing her choice to enter the building and had she been closer to the door she would have turned tail and run out. She took a deep breath, listening again for the sound, trying to pinpoint exactly where it was and what it could be. It was a dragging, jingling noise and her face creased in a frown. She called out in a hushed voice, unable to raise her it any louder due to the lump of fear inside of it.

She took a chance and slipped closer to the noise. She didn't know what she was expecting, but what she found wasn't it. Cloaked in the scent of decay and old body odor, Haytham Kenway was sagged unceremoniously in a chair, taut rope bindings cutting into his wrists and his ankles. His clothes were rumpled and his hat was gone, showing off how unorderly his hair was. It was slick with grease, and sweat, and fell across his face, cutting greying lines in the mess that she hardly recognized as his attractive face.

A dark bruise spread across his right cheekbone and engulfed his eye, swelling it shut. The discoloration of his skin continued across the bridge of his nose, which was crooked and likely broken. His greying hair stuck to his face in patches of crusted blood; dashes of scarlet across his paling skin. The area around his nose was darkened by the same blood, spread across his split lips.

However horrid those sites were, as Emeline drew closer, she was able to pinpointed where the stench of death came from. At his side was a deep gaping hole, torn flesh hanging from the gash where a dagger had gone in and been severely yanked out. She gasped, placing a hand against her mouth, trying to keep down whatever her stomach had been about to heave up. She crouched in front of him, trying to pick at his bindings, but she was unarmed and the ropes were too tight for her to untie.

She moved her hands to his face, patting his cheeks. "Haytham?" she tried, too afraid to shake him; fearful that she'd injury him further. Voices approached from the outside and panic gripped at her. "Haytham!?" She shook his knee, sending a hurried glance over her shoulder. He mumbled something in his infection induced slumber and she swore beneath her breath. She rose to find a place to hide - she was no use to Haytham if she got herself captured - just as the doors creaked open and the sunlight fell right on where she was standing.

Emeline spun around, nearly tripping over herself in an attempt to get out of the way. Standing in the only way out was a tall woman with dirty blonde hair and sharp green eyes. She stood in such a way that let others know that she was a force to be reckoned with and the cruel smirk on her lips didn't make Emeline feel the least bit better. Beside the woman was a stout little man with overgrown facial hair and a cheesy smile that made Emeline's insides crawl.

The woman smirked and walked forward. "Well, well, well," she chuckled, "looks like my uncle's got himself a little savior. How _sweet_." Though the expression on her face betrayed that she - in no way - thought it was the least bit sweet and Emeline held in the fear rising in the pit of her stomach. The woman turned towards the man. "Tie her up, we'll put on a little show for my dear old Uncle Haytham when he comes to."

Emelie scooted backwards, frantically searching for a way out, for something that could help improve her situation. There was nothing, and as the big man's shadow fell upon her and she felt the bite of the rope on her hands, Emeline Carter gave a cry, hoping that someone nearby would hear her cries. But that was severely unlikely considering they were in the middle of the forest, where people like her came to catch their thoughts.

No one was going to hear her scream her throat raw. No one was going to hear her yelps of pain and no one was coming to save her or Haytham. When at last, her vision went dark, Emeline Carter wished for death. She wished for some deity to smite her down for her sins and prayed to all the beings in heaven and hell that one of them would end her suffering quickly.

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><p><em>Haytham couldn't remember ever being as bored as he'd been the day his father tested his patience. It was a training exercise the old Assassin had liked, probably having knowing that he himself never would have been patient enough to pull it off. The point of it was for Haytham to wait until Edward wouldn't be expecting the younger to sneak up the stairs and into the study. <em>

_At the time, Haytham was a small child and didn't understand what this meant but knew it had to be important, so threw his entire being into it. He wanted to make his father proud. He sat in the sitting quarters for _hours_, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the perfect moment. Several times, he was passed by Jennifer and his mother. He shook off his half-sister's jests and his mother's questions with nothing more than a slight dismissive gesture of his hand; he'd seen his father do it. _

_When he finally decided that he'd waited long enough, he got slowly to his feet, careful to watch where he set his feet. He made his way through the hall and to the staircase. It had taken him a good ten minutes just to cross from the sitting room to the staircase. It took him nearly a half an hour to get up the stairs, having the hardest of times remembering which stairs squeaked. After that, it was the hall leading to the study. He moved slowly, hardly daring to breathe. When at last he reached the doorway to the study, he paused, putting a little hand over his mouth. _

_He didn't want to even breathe and he contemplated not breathing at all, but he pushed forward, afraid that he'd be heard simply because of the rapid beating of his heart. He was nearly there, just moments away from winning this little exercise and tapping his father on the shoulder when the dreaded thing happened. After _hours _of waiting, the floorboard did a little creak. Not a loud one, just a little squeak and Haytham's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. He saw his father's shoulders tense slightly just as he lunged himself forward and tapped his blonde haired father on the shoulder. _

_Edward had chuckled and turned, scooped Haytham up and gave him a hug. Haytham had been silently furious. He'd failed hadn't he? He'd made a noise and he'd failed. For the longest time, he held that in the back of his mind. It wasn't until he was older - much older - that he realized he hadn't failed. He'd shown remarkable patience and his father had been proud of him for that. _

When he opened his eyes, he expected to see his father standing before him. But instead he saw a woman. A woman with fire red hair a broken expression. Emeline Carter was strapped to a chair opposite him and standing just behind her was Claire. Haytham's chest constricted. "Don't…" He tried, his voice failing him. He groaned, waves of nausea rolling through him, his vision coming in and out of focus.

Claire's lips curved into a smirk. "Don't what?" she taunted, spinning around her knife. "Don't do this?" She sliced across Emeline's cheek and the woman flinched away from the blade. "Or this?" She dug the point into the red haired woman's neck, right where it met her shoulder and Emeline whimpered, closing her eyes and trying to move away from the knife. Though the more she struggled, the harder the point pressed against her pale skin.

Haytham ground his teeth together. "She's done nothing," he growled, spitting a clot of blood out on the floor.

Claire smirked and looked at Emeline. "That's not quite true, is it, Emmy?" Haytham couldn't mask his confusion and Claire snorted. "She's just like you, Haytham," she purred, "she was raised by us, but she abandoned the Assassins. She abandoned the Creed and she chose a life of neutrality after we murdered the man she loved; a Templar. Now's she got a soft spot for you," she smirked. "I can't decide who I'll make watch the other die…." And at the whimper that came from Emeline, Claire threw her head back and laughed.

Haytham closed his eyes. He had never feared the dawn before, but he feared that when the dawn came he and Emeline would be no closer to death and instead deeper into a pit of eternal suffering.


End file.
